


Something that simply mystifies me

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 500 followers giveaway, Dancing, M/M, Oblivious Enjolras, Origami, Pining, paper cranes, wink wink, wishes coming true
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 14:53:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2233110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No this is serious, Grantaire,” Combeferre frowns. “He’s finished all the Band-Aids for his papercuts.”</p><p>“Even the Beyoncé ones!”</p><p>Grantaire is not going to question why the triumvirate household owns Beyoncé Band-Aids, he’s not. “Listen guys, as much as I want to help our fearless leader join the human race again, I’m not sure it will work out, you know. I’ll just rile him up even more!”</p><p>Courfeyrac and Combeferre stare at each other. Eventually Combeferre takes out his fancy phone and flashes the screen at Grantaire who snorts his beer out of his nose. It is a photo of Enjolras, all flushed and concentrated and adorable, his tongue sticking out of his mouth, hundreds of origami birds around him, his hair into a bun and a pair of black glasses on his nose and Grantaire wants to scream, or pass out, or take his shit to go to Peru and befriend a llama to spit with for the rest of his life.<br/>*<br/>Enjolras learns that folding 1000 origami cranes might to grant him his biggest wish. Everyone else is gravely distressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something that simply mystifies me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ereini0n](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ereini0n/gifts).



> So I wrote twelve pages in two hours, I'm sorry if this sucks. I reached 500 followers on [tumblr](http://lepoeteimaginaire.tumblr.com/) and I decided to host a fic giveaway. One of the winners was [Ereini0n](http://ereini0n.tumblr.com/) and her prompt was: "I was thinking of a modern au, Enjolras/grantaire (what a surprise!), based on the 1,000 origami cranes story - as in, you fold 1000 paper cranes - your wish comes true." She asked for Enjolras being Grantaire's wish but I was so excited with the prompt that I started working on it right away and saw I had done the opposite only after I finished it so I'm sorry, I fucked up but I hope you still like the whole thing even though pining Enjolras is OOC Enjolras, thank you so much for everything!  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome!  
> EDIT: GOD I'M SO TIRED THERE ARE SO MANY TYPOS I'M DOUBLE CHECKING IT PLEASE DON'T HATE ME

As always, it is Courfeyrac’s fault.

Well, not _always,_ and Courfeyrac actually has reasons to find this accusation false and unfair, because he never does anything downright _harmful_ in itself and, even when he’s not immediately thriving for his friends’ happiness and welfare, all he really does is somehow actually achieving it unintentionally. Like the glitter laundry day. But they don’t talk about the glitter laundry day, and to his defense, it was just as Jehan and Bahorel’s intention as it was his.

But what exactly could go wrong with hobby Thursdays at the Musain? Seriously, what could be wrong with Courfeyrac trying to help his way-too-stressed-out-for-their-own-welfare, stuck up friends relax a bit from the activism _he_ possibly took more passionately than all of them together, and dedicate gloomy, cold Thursday autumn evenings to harmless, creative,  – and yes, _non-_ sexual – activities in order to clear up their minds before returning to their exhausting routine, full of classes and deadlines and a world waiting to be saved. And what could possibly go wrong with some of their most talented – at that point Courfeyrac wipes a single tear like a proud parent because _his boys_ and at that point Cosette, Eponine and Musichetta will cradle their sewing needles, karate belt and whipped cream charger accordingly and menacingly roar _AND GIRLS_ – and Courfeyrac will solemnly apologize, not only because his life is at stake, but because he has been actually, genuinely wrong in generalizing and erasing from his speaking process the female representation for which he’s been fighting every day ever since he got out of his terrifying skating, bro-fisting teens. No, honestly, _nothing_ could go wrong with hobby nights, maybe apart from Bossuet accidentally stabbing himself with a knitting needle or drinking watercolor water because _everything_ could happen to Bossuet, but that was before they realized that Grantaire actually had _hobbies._ Other than drinking, boasting about the pretty blonde things that he brought home, and making Enjolras want to punch holes in the wall of the Musain with Grantaire’s head, that is. And, worst of all, Grantaire didn’t only have hobbies. He also had _talents,_ talents he had apparently never boasted about.

That was how Grantaire ends up organizing most hobby Thursdays with Feuilly, Jehan and Cosette, teaching them all how to knit, how to sketch, sing and dance, and it’s going really _superbly_ great, until, well, until it doesn’t.

They’re all having a wonderful time, Joly looks much calmer and bubbly on these days, Jehan still has those dark circles under his eyes but at least he’s smiling and making jokes and creeping the fuck out of Bahorel on the Halloween makeup Thursday, nothing more happens to Bossuet than a papercut, and Combeferre looks like he greatly appreciates the distraction of teaching his friends chess, and watching them healthily compete. It’s a nice change from his exhausting days between classes, the clinic and organizing a bunch of hyper young adult revolutionaries who sign petitions for pretentious free trade coffee and ‘borrow’ pythons to participate in selfie marathons at their free time.

Nothing is more peculiar than the fact that Enjolras actually started off by taking this idea positively. He claimed that they were all too worked up, and claimed that Liberty and Equality wouldn’t have to wait if his comrades spared just one evening educating themselves on a variety of matters, which would also boost up their sense of Fraternity and cultural diversity in the bouts of their group. The problems started when he first got paired up with Grantaire in tango Thursday. Courfeyrac still cringes when he thinks of that disaster. Enjolras’ face was redder than his t-shirt, even redder than Musichetta’s split-thigh dress and the rose between Bahorel’s teeth, and he somehow managed to step on Grantaire’s foot so hard that they all came to learn approximately thirteen new swears in Spanish, Russian and Westron, and Joly gravely mentioned the word ‘amputation’. Then, at the fan-making Thursday, while Enjolras was naturally drooling over Feuilly’s use of color and craftsmanship, Grantaire pulled Jehan for a playful kiss on the neck, burying his face completely on the crook just above the obscene autumn leave scarf, causing the boy to giggle and Enjolras to cut his pinky with the scissors so badly, that Joly decided he needed an anti-tetanus shot. And then, on baking Thursday, Grantaire  tasted Courfeyrac’s dough with his finger, licking it slowly between his lips, and Enjolras managed to drop his boiling chocolate bowl on the table, giving Bossuet who happened to be sitting nearby a first degree burn. Needless to say, neither Enjolras nor Joly were feeling comfortable on Wednesday nights anymore, while everyone else was looking forward to the following day’s meeting at the Musain. That, until the evening of origami Thursday.

Grantaire and Feuilly took over teaching the others how to make the traditional Asian origami cranes. There were one or two snorts, as to a couple of them, the cliché little paper bird seemed too easy to make, but they all had to swallow their tongues – and possibly their nostrils – when, after thirty minutes or so, they were all sweating and struggling, frowning and biting their lips after making a mistake and having to start from the very beginning, as most of the cranes had ended up looking like sad, half-sunk, napkin Titanic boats. Enjolras’ was the worst of all, looking, after an hour of sweaty struggling, like a square, wrinkled piece of orange paper with little ducks printed on it. He was greatly distressed, and would have immediately left the meeting to go be grumpy at his room, actually _finishing_ some important work, if it weren’t for Feuilly’s extremely interesting cultural explanations as he walked between the tables.

“…It represents good health, longevity, truth and fidelity. Cranes, in the Asian tradition, are mystical and holy creatures, thought to be noble birds who live for a thousand years and are the most worthy ones of serving as messengers to the ancient immortals. In the end of the eighteenth century, in Japan, one of the first books on origami, “How to fold 1000 cranes” was published and it dramatically increased their popularity, establishing the tradition of giving the most of one’s patience and commitment in folding 1000 paper cranes, in order to be granted their most desired wish, after exhibiting the cranes loyalty and recreating their beauty.” The story of Sadako Sasaki and her memorial, a  girl born in Hiroshima and dying from leukemia before being able to finish her thousand cranes, actually brings tears that prickle on Enjolras’ eyes and never actually flow, and he finds himself unusually touched and mystified, which makes him all the more outraged for not being able to complete what most of his friends had more or less managed to.

And then, before he knew it, Grantaire was at his table, startling him, raising a sarcastic eyebrow which made Enjolras want to punch his throat, wrapping his arms around him, and then – oh and _then,_ he wrapped his fingers around Enjolras’ own, leading them gently into folding his square piece of paper clumsily, but into place, his callused, long, eternally paint stained fingers with the bitten fingernails and the small, healing cuts from paper and woodcraft tools and whatever else shit he _can_ do, these fingers that Enjolras most definitely _had not_ been staring during the patient origami demonstration, fingers cold and rough, now touching his own, and his head was spinning with the scent of smoke and alcohol and something sour and _so pleasant,_ like… citrus, and leaves, and nature, just don’t ask Enjolras to specify because he’s always been so bad at this, he’s not Combeferre, plus his heart was hammering so frantically in his ears that he hardly remembers anything at all.

“And… here,” Grantaire hummed triumphantly, “ready! See, Apollo, for a man with _your conviction,_ ” he raised a teasing eyebrow, “a little practice makes nothing impossible!”

Enjolras had never felt more frustrated and distressed in his entire life. At the end of the session, after everyone else was gone, he had approached Combeferre and squeaked “I need your help.” Combeferre had raised his eyes behind his glasses in reserved surprise and Enjolras had straightened his posture and cleared his throat, repeating in a deep, manly voice “Combeferre, I need your help.” Combeferre had lowered his advanced origami guide and eyed him with gentle curiosity, if not a little weariness.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, oh.”

“So,” Combeferre slowly folded his guide. “You asked for help, should I be worried?”

“Combeferre,” Enjolras began formally, after taking a deep breath, “you are a doctor, and a man of letters.”

If Combeferre was concerned, he did an admirable job in hiding it. “Are you ill?”

Enjolras looked around nervously, folding and unfolding his hands. “I don’t know uh _I don’t know_!”

“How are you feeling?”

“Good. Dandy. SHIT!” Enjolras groaned. “I don’t know, Combeferre, he makes me so _angry_ I think I’ll explode, I want to punch that disgusting smug smile off his face and shove his alcohol up his ass so he can leave us and our work alone, but then he’s so _talented_ and he knows all those things which I don’t, and that makes me so upset – ugh, I hate him!”

“Who do you hate, Enjolras?” Combeferre takes off his glasses to wipe  them on his sweater.

Enjolras makes a squirming noise into his palms and then pulls away. “Grantaire!”

Combeferre seems to be internally struggling against something that Enjolras can’t really identify. Eventually he puts his glasses back on. “I see. Listen, Enjolras. I hardly believe that hating Grantaire is a matter in urgent need of medical assistance, unless you hate him so much that you consider harming him, which would demand the help of a specialist to deal with your anger issues.” And with that, Combeferre takes his hot chocolate in his hands and bring it for a slow sip that will soothe and prepare him for what is to come.

“Have you talked philosophy with him?” Enjolras asks desperately. “I know you have, and his opinions might be shit but he’s so well read it gets on my nerves!”

“He sure is,” Combeferre nods calmly. “But so are you, so no need to feel competitive against him.”

“I’m not, _uh –_ have you seen his hands?”

Combeferre chokes on his hot chocolate. When he speaks his voice is small and hoarse, as if he’s suddenly grown twelve years, or caught Joly’s cold. “I don’t spend the meetings staring at our friends’ hands, Enjolras, so no, I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“He has those ridiculous fingers, long and deft and… they can do so many thingsit’s driving me crazy…”

“Grantaire’s fingers,” Combeferre repeats carefully, “they can do many things, so that drives you crazy.” Combeferre places his mug back on the table of the Musain and heaves a sigh. “Listen, Enjolras, I think I can’t help you at this point…”

“But you must, you are my friend!”

“I can’t help you until you sit down with yourself and think about the feelings you have for Grantaire.”

“There’s nothing to think…”

“When you have _properly_ thought them out, you can come and find me, and I will be more than happy to help you find a rational solution…”

“He hates me Combeferre, doesn’t he?”

Combeferre remains silent of a minute, then stands up, dusts his corduroys pants and gathers his books and his umbrella. “I’m sorry I can’t be of any more help, Enjolras, but I have a date,” he informs his friend with a decided voice. “There is pasta and meatballs at home.”

Enjolras is left scowling pitifully.

Now, everything they do on hobby Thursdays becomes a trend in the Musain, for a couple of days, or even till next Thursday. Bossuet was suspended from class for doing voice exercises, Courfeyrac twirls around in three quarter time for a while, even Combeferre has caught himself folding little fans from political pamphlets during his studying breaks. Thus, it was only expected for paper cranes to be found all around the place at the Musain for the following two or three or days, but the last thing anyone had ever expected, was Enjolras being mystified by his newly acquired skill and taking it to the next level.

It’s Courfeyrac who finds him the following day, sprawled out over the carpet of their apartment, in the most unorthodox positions that would give Joly’s Cat a run for her money, surrounded with piles of wrinkled paper of any kind: newspapers (especially the pages referring to the governing political party), Care Bare tissues, pages from a lingerie catalogue (now, Courfeyrac muses, that’s a pity, he wanted this catalogue), takeaway fliers and – Courfeyrac considers they’ll have to disguise that one before Combeferre gets home – the gas bill. Enjolras is also surrounded by a dozen of completed paper cranes, clumsy and crumpled, but still, paper cranes, and is devotedly working on the next one, biting his lip, his halo of golden hair tousled, sweaty locks sticking dangerously in all different directions out of his pencil-held messy bun. Enjolras doesn’t even raise his glance when Courfeyrac enters the room. Courfeyrac hasn’t seen him so absorbed since the last post-protest sleeping-out-of-the-parliament incident, so he grimaces, taking a seat opposite his friend on the carpet, and leaning forward.

“Enjo,” he murmurs cautiously, “are you alright?”

“I’m perfectly fine, the newest sex workers accident statistics are on my desk, give them a look when you have time,” Enjolras mutters without taking his eyes away from the last tiny head he’s struggling with.

“Sure thing, honey, but are you sure you’re well? How is life treating you?”

“Listen, Courfeyrac, if you came here to distract me…”

“What…” Courfeyrac’s eyes grow wide in shock when realization hits him. “No. Just, _no._ Oh God, Enjolras, please in the name of our friendship, remember that time in first grade when I promised I _wouldn’t_ laugh at you even though you were still swimming with Babar arm floats, and tell me that you’re not doing the wish thing!”

Enjolras remains determinedly silent, his lips stubbornly sealed together and Courfeyrac’s eyes grow even wider in utter horror. “No. Nonononono.”

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras finally raises his eyes and abandons the lime polka dot piece of paper he’s been struggling with on his leg, “what I’m doing is none of your business…”

“Excuse your mightiness but last time I checked it _was_ my business if an evil wizard with no nose made a horcrux out of my best friend and possessed him, making him fold a thousand paper cranes in order to summon the Satan.”

“Yeah, still me in here,” Enjolras mutters unimpressed. “Now go away.”

“So what do you plan on wishing for?” Courfeyrac asks, having found his previous cheer, picking up a folded cigarette case, then letting it drop as his eyeballs try to jump out of his face. “No.”

Enjolras ignores him and continues his silent quest.

“For fuck’s sake, NO, Enjolras, that’s just… that’s obscene! That’s just abusing your wish!”

That draws Enjolras’ attention. “What do you mean?”

“You can’t – oh my God other people actually need these wishes, you _can’t_ wish for something so ridiculous…”

A violent flush spreads over Enjolras’ face as he raises his eyes, bewildered. “You don’t even know what I’m wishing for!”

“Oh so you _are_ wishing!” Courfeyrac takes a deep breath, obviously making an honest effort not to break down. “You need help,” he shakes his head gravely.

“I don’t need…”

“Please let me help you…”

“I DON’T NEED your help now leave me alone!”

“You can’t wish for something that will happen anyway…”

“YOU DON’T KNOW…”

“I can’t do this,” Courfeyrac stands up, frantically waving his hands in the air, “no, I swear I can’t do this, I don’t give two shits if you’re abusing your wish, really, just… make your little birdies, Enjolras, because I’m SO outta here!”

And with that, Courfeyrac storms out of the room. Enjolras merely shrugs his shoulders, and gets on with his work.

*

During the first day, Combeferre says nothing. He looks way too tired to form a proper sentence, so he makes an effort to stay away from Enjolras’ feet, hoping his friend willeventually come to his senses, and limits their interaction to bringing him his meals on the carpet, and making sure he’s emptied his plate. The second day is a Saturday, and Enjolras has no classes, which means that he stays inside, folding cranes with fierce conviction engraved on his face. Combeferre takes a seat on his favorite armchair and leans forward. “Now,” he starts seriously, “do you seriously believe in this?”

Enjolras looks at him, dark circles surrounding his sleep deprived, red-rimmed eyes. “I’m a grown man, Ferre. I can do whatever I want.”

“You are a grown man,” Combeferre repeats. “A _rational_ man…”

“No, Ferre, _you’re_ a rational man. You give science too much credit,” Enjolras impatiently runs his hand down his face. “You’ll never know if you don’t  try it, and to try it you’ve got to believe in it first.” He hands Combeferre a square piece of Christmas wrapping paper. “Paper?”

Combeferre stares at Enjolras’ extended hand with blank, frozen eyes. “No, thanks,” he eventually murmurs in a dull voice. “Just… tell me, do you need food?”

“Yes please,” Enjolras smiles tiredly, considerably more composed and cooperative than the previous days. “If that’ll make you feel better, bring me some takeaway. Not spicy, and with extra…”

“Extra sweet and sour sauce, I know. Do you maybe need a diaper, in case you’re too busy to go to the toilet?”

Enjolras raises a sarcastic eyebrow. “You _are_ funny. Now be careful, you’ll step on my cranes.”

During the weekend, both Courfeyrac and Combeferre learn not to meddle with Enjolras and his little paper birds. Even when he takes breaks, he makes more coffee in his thick rimmed glasses and ratty pumpkin pyjama pants, his hair held into place with pencils, staring gravely at the clouded sky out of the window as he waits for the coffee machine to go off, like a scene out of a sad indie videoclip, and Combeferre is slowly losing it. Eventually he learns to walk over paper piles and to under no circumstances unfold paper cranes to find a patient’s health history, or the laundry receipt. All Combeferre does anymore is sigh, and Courfeyrac is forbidden from entering the living room because then he goes to Combeferre crying and screaming and he punched the wall with his hand and then Combeferre had to patch it up, as if he hasn’t already mended six – surely fatal – papercuts.

“Will you tell him?” Courfeyrac mutters when Monday rises and Enjolras has not yet left home to attend his class.

“No I absolutely won’t tell him, leave him in his misery,” murmurs Combeferre stubbornly.

“He’s going to break me, Ferre I know he is, and then I seriously don’t know what you’ll do without me!”

Thankfully on Tuesday, Enjolras goes to class – it’s Professor Lamarque’s, Combeferre would be truly worried if he didn’t – only to return home and kick off his boots, sitting cross legged on his newly-constructed pillow fort in the middle of a crane army, and continuing his work without even bothering to tie up his hair.

On Tuesday night they have a meeting at the Musain to discuss the newest student fares legislation, and Enjolras brings along his papers. At least he has the decency to work on them under the table, after he’s finished his speech and while Courfeyrac is explaining everything about their petition, but pretty much everyone recognizes. The most amused and worried at the same time is, apparently, Grantaire.

“Uh, is he okay?” he whispers in Combeferre’s ear. “Did you put him on caffeine withdrawal? Because I’m concerned, you know.”

Combeferre just sighs so hard that Grantaire worries his lungs will fall out of his mouth.

It’s been decided that this Thursday is going to be juggling Thursday with Bossuet. Wednesday is a gloomy autumn day and everyone needs a break from their responsibilities, so they go out for a cocktail in the shitty place with underground grunge lives where Eponine tends tables. Predictably enough, Enjolras doesn’t appear. Even more predictably, Grantaire is miserable. He sits at a stool, nursing what seems to be his third beer, and always find excuses for Feuilly and Bahorel’s invitations to flirt with cute girls – or with each other – at the bar. Grantaire is okay where he is, together with his beer, Joly and Bossuet taking the occasional break from their horrendously awkward dancing to come for a joke every now and then, Jehan checking on him occasionally, crooning drunken sweet nothings, and the last thing Grantaire is expecting, is Combeferre and Courfeyrac to pull two seats opposite him, and pull a grave, conspiratory staring contest with him.

“Uh, guys?” he asks cautiously. “What the fuck did I do, you’re creeping the ever living shit outta me?”

Combeferre sighs and Grantaire thinks that this whole sighing thing is getting a bit too much. Honestly, Combeferre might think it suits the whole smug-genius grandpa-sweater-vests-and-tattoos style he’s got going – which it does, don’t get him wrong – but sighing? Honestly? Grantaire thought the hipster scruff he’d started growing was doing the work just fine in itself!

“It’s about Enjolras,” Courfeyrac supplies him.

That instinctively gets Grantaire’s heart going, and he jumps up a bit up his seat. “What about him?” he asks, his throat tight and his breathing a little out of pace. “Is he okay? He didn’t martyr himself in the temple of Liberty, I mean, if he’d done so you wouldn’t be here, right?”

“He technically hasn’t martyred himself just _yet_ …” Courfeyrac starts muttering, seemingly afraid for his own welfare now that Grantaire is drunk and worried.

Grantaire groans. “Don’t tell me he hasn’t slept in what, a week, because he’s writing furious articles about whatever the shit the government is up now…”

“He’s actually folding cranes,” Combeferre interrupts him.

Grantaire makes an attempt to speak but he shuts his mouth, his blue eyes going blank. “Uh, sorry, what?”

“We have reasons to believe,” Combeferre takes a breath, “that he has a wish.”

 “A… _a wish_? Like, a thousand fucking cranes worthy wish?”

“He’s gone nuts, R!”

“For fuck’s sake,” hisses Grantaire, burying his face in his hands, “I always knew he was delusional, in his own breathtaking, mystifying way of doing so, but this…” suddenly he looks sobered up, and he turns to look at Combeferre seriously. “Does he eat at least?”

Combeferre cackles bitterly. “Ah, no need to worry about _that._ Spinach pie and chicken nuggets, today. Two plates, that I brought to him in the living room and then took back to the kitchen. Apparently no one knew that folding all those tiny fricking birds would require so much energy.”

“Listen, R, I can’t take this any fucking longer, my friend is crazy!”

“I have been cleaning paper pieces from every possible surface around the house. Yesterday I found a letter from my grandmother.”

“That guy’s _number,_ R, the one with the mint skinny jeans!” Courfeyrac practically cries, “he practically _stole_ it from my pocket!”

Grantaire laughs, only it comes out a bit biased and wrong.

“No this is serious, Grantaire,” Combeferre frowns. “He’s finished all the Band-Aids for his papercuts.”

“Even the Beyoncé ones!”

Grantaire is not going to question why the triumvirate household owns Beyoncé Band-Aids, he’s not. “Have you tried seeking medical assistance?”

Combeferre stares blankly at him. “I’m a doctor in training, R.”

“Right, sorry, I’ve had one beer too much.” Grantaire wearily wipes his face with his palm. “So, what are you planning to do?”

“You are the only one who can help him see some sense, Grantaire,” Combeferre eventually breaks down, “with a few cynical arguments, and all…”

“What? Are you even _hearing_ yourself?”

“Yes, and he’ll hear you!”

“Knowing our mighty leader, if I try to distract him he’ll just slice my throat with a piece of sandpaper he hasn't tried folding yet!”

“You’ve got to talk to him, Grantaire! Make him embarrassed of himself, make him see how ridiculous he’s being! You’re the only one who can make him feel like shit!”

“Well look how good friends you two are being!”

“We _are_ being good friends! Enjolras needs immediate help, Grantaire!”

“Listen guys, as much as I want to help our fearless leader join the human race again, I’m not sure it will work out, you know. I’ll just rile him up even more!”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre stare at each other. “No, Grantaire. Only you can help him,” Combeferre declares seriously, taking out his fancy phone and flashing the screen at Grantaire who snorts his beer out of his nose. It is a photo of Enjolras, all flushed and concentrated and adorable, his tongue sticking out of his mouth, with _hundreds_ of these fucking origami birds around him, his hair into a bun and a pair of black glasses on his nose and Grantaire wants to scream, or pass out, or take his shit to go to Peru and befriend a llama to spit with for the rest of his life. Instead he swears through his teeth _._ “I’m so fucked…”

*

Enjolras opens the door with a scowl and a pair of glasses hanging dangerously from his nose, in an oversized Michael Jackson t-shirt (that _must_ be Courfeyrac’s otherwise Grantaire needs to seriously reconsider his life choices) and the rattiest pair of sweatpants to have ever existed. “What are _you_ doing here?” Enjolras asks with hostility.

“Geez, good evening to you too, Apollo,” Grantaire raises an eyebrow, entering the apartment without waiting for further invitation. “So, is your wish likely to come true?”

Enjolras stares at him quietly for a while, before accepting his fate and turning around to sit on the carpet and start folding paper. He looks slightly panicked and his hands are trembling. Grantaire is feeling horrible, like he’s invading in something very personal, no matter how ridiculous it might be. “I’m on number 657,” Enjolras seems to be talking to himself rather than to Grantaire, “I might finish today, and I don’t want you to be here when I do.”

“Why, will my absence of faith scare the crane spirit away?” Enjolras opens his mouth for what Grantaire already knows well enough as a storm coming on, yet he still holds up a hand. “Because you guessed right, that’s what I came, to be all pessimistic and  _sceptical_ about this and all. I mean, this is so utterly stupid, you can’t possibly _believe_ in this bullshit!”

“Oh yeah? Just because you don’t have faith at anything at all…”

“Stop, Apollo. Just, spare me…” Grantaire stands up decisively. “Actually, I’m here on the noble quest of distracting you! Probably it's the only one I'm gonna get, you can't take it away from me!”

“What… who gave you the right?” Enjolras asks incredulously.

“Your friends did. No come on, you need to have a break, okay?”

“You can’t distract me,” snorts Enjolras, not taking his eyes away from his crane.

“Come on,” Grantaire pats his hip and Enjolras turns to look at him behind his thick-rimmed glasses. “We’re gonna jam a bit.”

“We’re gonna _what_?”

“Jesus, Apollo, we’re gonna dance, like, that’s my only talent, and we’re going to dance to whatever the fuck I find first on your pretentious iPhone, come on.”

Enjolras practically has no other choice, since Grantaire grabs his hand and Enjolras almost freezes at his place, staring at him from the floor before standing up and groaning. “You just want to laugh at my face, because you know I’m shit in dancing…”

“Oh, shut up Apollo,” grins Grantaire, before hitting Play on the iPhone, and then he’s fucked.

“Um, maybe we should continue these cranes…”

“No, I’m doing them on my own!”

Grantaire is fucked, so utterly, dreadfully fucked. Because this is some slow Sinatra shit in that phone, with all the retro sound distortion and fucked if he’s dancing this with Enjolras only, next thing he knows, he’s dancing with Enjolras.

“I hate when you distract me”, Enjolras hisses as they start moving slowly together, Grantaire leading his clumsy socked steps, “I really hate you when you do that, fuck…” they’re rocking together awkwardly on the left and on the right, one, two, then again, and how the hell had Enjolras been folding paper on such dim light all this time? And shit _shit_ his hands are on Enjolras’ waist, he feels so warm through the fabric of his shirt, and Enjolras looks so horribly distressed and frustrated, those soft, ridiculous cherry lips slightly parted in shock, his blue eyes opened widely and those glasses, God _those glasses,_ and he’s breathing well _of course he’s breathing,_ but it smells of coffee and coconut shampoo and _fuck Enjolras is breathing on him holy shit it’s warm and Grantaire is melting…_

“I hate you, Grantaire,” Enjolras hums in a shaky voice and then he rests his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder and nothing makes sense anymore because Grantaire’s head is buzzing, and then there is that song, distracting as a fever and their breaths mingle together as they swing around the room, careful not to step on the hundreds of colorful paper cranes lying around them, the glossy ones reflecting beautiful colors as the lamp light falls on them…

“It’s okay, Apollo, I think I’ll live…”

“No, this isn't over yet, I mean you came here to distract me and mock what I was doing…”

“No offence, Apollo, I hate to sound all dark and gloomy again, but I don’t think paper cranes will help anyone’s wish come true…”

“Oh, but stupid dancing lessons will help more then?” Enjolras scowls as they continue moving together, only a bit more aggressively now, because Enjolras’ foot is on Grantaire’s and he doesn’t even wince in pain because he’s too busy screaming internally, and if it weren’t for Enjolras’ arms around his waist – or maybe exactly _because_ of those arms – Grantaire is sure he’d pass out, and he’s not even drunk _God he’s not anywhere nearly drunk enough for that…_ “Also I hate how you keep _doing_ this to yourself, Jesus Grantaire, _we’re gonna dance because this is like, my only talent,_ ” Enjolras mocks, “and you have all those talents and the things I can’t do and you’re being ridiculous…”

“Oh _of course,_ that’s why you made all these in first place, right? To prove to yourself you could do this better than me. This is just another competition, Apollo, isn’t it?”

“What? No, ugh” Enjolras buries his forehead on the crook of Grantaire’s head and this isn’t supposed to happen like that, this _most definitely_ shouldn’t be happening, Grantaire is liquid and he’s dripping into Enjolras’ arms only this sounded wrong in his head, all he knows is he can’t be awake, he’s fucking dreaming and fucked if he wants to wake… “You don’t understand _you never understand_ do you…”

“No?” breathes Grantaire hoarsely, “care to enlighten me?” and just as he says it and he’s trying to pull in a breath, Enjolras kisses him, and it’s shaky and hungry and short only for Grantaire it starts a lifetime, he can’t breathe, he can only stand there frozen, with Enjolras’ lips pressed upon his own almost in desperation, sweet and wet and _soft_ and Grantaire thinks he’ll die but then he does, a little, because Enjolras pulls away in horror, his breath having fogged up the lenses of his glasses that blur his huge, blue eyes and his God has never looked more gorgeous, ever. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, “I shouldn’t, it’s just my wish, everything went wrong, it was just 657 and now I don’t know if it’s happened just _God I’m so sorry_ but I love you and I don’t know what to do anymore…”

Grantaire shuts him up, pulling again for a second kiss while he’s still conscious and breathing because he’ll probably collapse soon enough. “Is this okay?” he hums upon Enjolras’ lips, feeling his heart trying to hammer its way out of his chest but then again maybe that’s just Enjolras’ heart, or maybe they’re so close pressed against each other that Grantaire can hear nothing else but their heartbeats, and then Enjolras parts his lips and presses closer and it’s even softer this time, slow and magical, Enjolras is breathing raggedly against his mouth, throwing his fingers through Grantaire’s hair and pulling him closer with a blissful hum.

They’re left breathless after what feels like a couple of centuries, their foreheads touching and their fingers sweaty and entwined. Grantaire’s are rough and callused, and he can feel the Beyoncé Band-Aids on Enjolras’ delicate, smooth ones. “We should,” he clears his throat, “um, finish those cranes.”

“We don’t have to,” Enjolras mutters with a smile he can’t quite swallow, “but we can, if you want to.”

“For science, Enjolras,” Grantaire chuckles shakily, “to see if it can all come true.”

“You know,” Enjolras murmurs, rubbing circles on Grantaire’s hand with his thumb,  “not that I know anything about it, of course, but I think it will.”

**Author's Note:**

> I literally knew nothing about this beautiful thing before Ereini0n told me about it (though I had that awesome classmate in school who did the most wonderful origamis and taught us to make cranes one day, not that I remember how) so I tried to do my research. The sites I have practically copied are here http://1000cranes.com/about-us/the-1000-cranes-legend/ and Wikipedia, so I'm sorry for my ignorance.


End file.
